


Preparations

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 00:56:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15352665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: Dorian plans for his and Trevelyan's wedding.Trevelyan isn't much help.





	Preparations

The wedding was going to be one for the history books.

The Imperial Chantry in the heart of Minrathous had been rented out. Hundreds of gold sovereigns had been promised to the Ambassadoria in exchange for protection during the ceremony. Wards, anti-hex charms, and barriers had been checked and rechecked and triple-checked at every possible assassination point around the altar.

There was a never-ending list of threats to be made, bribes to pass along, and allies to be courted.

Dorian was exhausted. Miles of drapery had been marched through his parlor that day alone, and each one had to be compared with the fabric of his and Trevelyan’s wedding attire. There were meetings with pastry chefs, florists, musicians, and trestle makers to arrange. Dorian spent two weeks arguing with his family’s vintner over whether a sparkling muscat should be served after the first course of dinner—clay-baked river pike with grilled peacock tongue—or a bubbling rosé.

Trevelyan, though it all, had barely said a word.

“You’ve decided on the grey cloak slashed with black accents, correct?” Dorian stood in front a mirror in his bedroom in the Minrathous townhouse, moving an ascot of white silk over his throat.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to know what I'm going to wear before the wedding,” said Trevelyan.

He lounged on a sofa across the room, reading a book. It was the same spot he had sat in all day, watching Dorian orchestrate the wedding planners in silence.

“Oh, don’t be absurd. How would you expect me to coordinate otherwise?” Dorian exchanged the white ascot for a red one. “Black and grey. You do realize you’ll look like a goat in that color scheme?”

“It’s chamois,” said Trevelyan.

“Which is a goat.”

Trevelyan shrugged and turned a page.

“I’m sorry, am I bothering you?” asked Dorian.

“Hm?”

Dorian threw down the ascots. “I have been planning and running myself ragged for weeks, while you sit like a wart on a nug’s arse and do nothing.”

Trevelyan did not look up. “I wasn’t aware my opinion was needed.”

"Given how little you seem to care, maybe it isn’t!"

Dorian folded his arms. A vein was pulsing hard in his stomach, and the floor seemed suddenly tilted.

“Are you bored?” asked Dorian. “Because if you’ve lost interest, now would be the time to say so.”

“Oh, don’t be such a martyr.” Trevelyan tossed the book down on the sofa.

“What else am I supposed to take away? Do you have any idea how much money we've spent on this? How much time I’ve sunk into this all by myself?”

It was the first time he had complained. The aching emptiness inside him as he woke each day and asked Trevelyan if he wanted to meet the florists, the vintners, the tailors, only to be told curtly, _no, I’m sure you can handle it on your own_ , surfaced like a boil.

“What is wrong with you?” asked Dorian. “Do you not want this?”

Trevelyan was silent for a long moment. “No. I don’t want this."

“You don’t want _what_?” asked Dorian, sick.

" _This_." He gestured to the room. It encompassed everything, the fabrics, the plans, the maps of the floorplan of the chantry. “Dorian, If we get married in the Imperial Cathedral, what do you think will happen?”

“I was hoping we would have the best day of our lives.”

“With hundreds of Tevinter’s elite watching us? Marking our every move? Forcing us to play the same roles we’ve always had to play? Dorian, if we get married in that chantry, it’s not going to be our wedding. It’s going to be Magister Pavus’s and the Inquisitor’s wedding. _We_ won’t get to have the best day of our lives.”

“It’s the venue that bothers you?”

“It’s everything!" Trevelyan scrubbed his hands through his hair.

“I don’t understand,” said Dorian. “Why didn’t you say this before?”

“I wanted to. But you just kept committing us and making decisions without asking me. I didn’t want to be the one to spoil things. Not if they made you happy." 

Dorian had been happy. As much work as it was, as much as planning this wedding threatened to suffocate him, there was a joy in it as well. It was why he had chosen the Imperial Chantry in the first place. The thought of Trevelyan walking down the aisle of that great building while all of Tevinter was forced to look on and acknowledge him as Dorian’s _husband_ —

It was that single dream that had sustained him throughout all the stress. Every flower, slice of cake, and gift would be a shout to every corner of the Imperium: this is my happiness, and you can’t take it away from me anymore.

And through it all, Dorian had taken Trevelyan’s silence as assent.  

Dorian crossed the room and poured two glasses of wine. He handed one to Trevelyan. "Tell me what you want.”

“All on me then?” said Trevelyan, coldly, taking it.

Dorian clinked their glasses together.   

“I want our day to be about us,” said Trevelyan. “Our friends. I don’t want to be afraid of a hundred threats and assassinations and preparations. I want it to be-”

"Small?"

"Yes."

Dorian stood down beside him on the sofa. They sat there drinking side by side, a parlor full of fabric samples and ribbons spread out before them.

“Fortunately," said Dorian. "I kept the receipts."   

Trevelyan sighed and relaxed. He drained his glass. "So long as you don't take back my suit. I like the grey and black.”

“Goat colors.”

Trevelyan bumped his knee. “Chamois.” 


End file.
